Page 33 of The Heiress Gets a Duke
Violet gave her a half smile, the mischievous one that seemed to say she saw more than she let on. “I only wanted to make sure. Heishandsome. Perhaps he wouldn’t be the worst choice for a husband if you wanted one.” At August’s incredulous look, the smile dropped and she became serious again. “What will we do? You know that Mother and Papa will want this match.”
“I don’t know.” August didn’t know, but she was not planning to simply go along with a fortune hunter, no matter how skillfully he kissed her. “Do you think you could make my apologies to Mother and Camille? I cannot return to dancing any more tonight. I have to go home.” She had to think her way out of this.
“Of course,” Violet said as they rose. She reached out and carefully arranged August’s skirts, before tucking a stray lock of hair that August had missed back into a pin. Her eyebrow rose in pointed curiosity that it would have come loose, and for one horrifying moment August was certain she would know that Rothschild’s hands had been in her hair as he had kissed her. But Violet simply said, “Go home and rest. You’ve had a terrible shock.”
“I’ll send the carriage back.”
August hugged Violet and made her way to the front of the house. She was sure that Rothschild must have left by now, but that did not stop her head from being on a constant swivel. Whether she was hoping to catch sight of him or was dreading the prospect, she did not care to examine. What she did observe were the countless eyes that turned toward her as she passed. People had noticed the Crenshaws ever since they had arrived in London. Their attention wasn’t anything new. What was new were the questions lurking on their faces now.
Why did he choose you when everyone knows your sister is the one being offered to him?Or,How much does it cost,precisely, to purchase a duke for a husband?There were also a few sneers among them. They were easy to interpret.You might buy yourself a title, but you’ll never be one of us.
Had August been in the market for a noble husband, she wasn’t at all certain that she would be up to the task of handling his peers. No, it would be best to return home to New York as planned and put this all behind them.
***
Evan had almost had her. If he had simply allowed the door to open, Hereford would have discovered them, and Evan would now be ensconced in a room, perhaps in the Crenshaws’ townhome, discussing the particulars of a marriage contract with her father. Instead he was at the gymnasium in Montague Club hours after the kiss, punching a sand-stuffed burlap sack.
Still without an heiress.
The fine moldings and paper that plastered the wall, along with the grand chandelier hung with hundreds of crystals, marked the room as a ballroom. It had not seen any dancing in years and had been refitted with gymnasium equipment: an incline with cables and pulleys to exercise the abdominal area, a standing machine with straps for pulling that exercised the arms, several machines intended for leg repetitions, and a wall hung with slats and bars for climbing. Perhaps he would get to them all before the night was done. Physical exhaustion seemed to be the only way to calm his frustrations lately.
As his fist made solid contact with the sack, a welcome pain vibrated through his knuckles, reminding him that he should have had someone bind his hands for him. The batting strips he had hastily wrapped around his fists were too loose and already slipping. Another blow thudded dully, sending the bag reeling backward on its tether and twitching as if alive with electric current. A left hook checked its progress so that it flinched and trembled. None of the punches brought the satisfaction he sought.
Again, he asked himself why he had done it. The worst that could have happened was that August would be furiouswith him. Fine, it was a certainty that being caught with him in the library and forced to marry would have sent her into state of fury so intense she might have tried to kill him. He was confident in his ability to handle that. He handled two lively younger sisters all the time. While August was a different type of woman altogether, he would have survived. Given time, she would have adjusted to life as a duchess. Their marrying was inevitable; he had no doubt about that. So why had he blocked Hereford’s entry?
The only answer he could settle on was that the kiss had thrown him off. What had started as a very straightforward attempt at seduction had gone off the tracks. How had kissing her so overwhelmed him? One moment he had been in control, and the next he had had her up against a bookcase with his hands under her skirts. He never lost his restraint like that. Certainly not in a library at a ball.
Growling, he unleashed a fury of blows on the battered burlap until a pleasant burn developed in his arms. The only thing he could command in his life was his training. It was the one thing he did daily, and it grounded him as nothing else could. Unfortunately, it was doing nothing to ease the fury coursing through him. Fury with himself. With her. With his father and the situation that had made her so necessary to him. He had lived his life until now with no restraints, and now that was all he seemed to have.
Bloody hell.When his lungs desperately needed more air than he could pull in, he let his hands fall. His fists pressed into his knees as he leaned over and tried to draw air into his lungs. A telltale hint of red bonded a strip of batting to his knuckle. Despite the pain and discomfort of his body, her expression still haunted him. The mild confusion that had turned to emotional pain when Hereford had come to the door. Lips swollen, she had been as lost in the kiss as him, but when the voices had penetrated the fog of passion, she had believed that he had betrayed her. Not only had she believed it, but she had been hurt by it.
Up until that moment, or that kiss to be more precise, Evan had viewed his extraordinary courtship of her as a game. Winning her hand would be the prize at the end.Knowing that the future of so many lay on his shoulders had helped convince him that winning by any means was not as unconscionable as it might have been. Yet, a bizarre mix of her expression of painful betrayal and his own conscience rearing its head at the very last moment had made him put his hands on the latch. As he had held it tight, something had become clear to him. He wanted to win her on his own merit. He wanted her tochoosehim. And, more importantly, he did not want to hurt her.
Letting loose a roar of frustration, he attacked the sandbag again, wishing it was the long-buried sense of honor that had reared its ugly head at the wrong time.
“Ha!”
Honor had nothing to do with it. His conscience would not allow him to hide behind such a noble lie. It had been pure selfishness. Wanting her to choose him would be a way of proving to himself and everyone else that he had won. That he was capable of holding her esteem on his own merit. It was most definitely not rooted in any sense of honor. That particular sentiment had not been present in his decisions for a long time.
He had not wanted to cause her pain, but what right did he have making that decision when the far nobler one would be to secure the future of the families who depended upon him? One door had stood between him and the right decision. One door, and he had let them down. Again.
“It appears quite dead.” Leigh’s voice filled the cavernous room from the doorway.
Evan let his arms drop to his sides when he saw the tear in the burlap. Sand rained down from the bottom corner as if through an hourglass to create a miniature dune on the floor. Leigh came farther into the room still dressed in his evening finery minus his hat and gloves. Beside him stood Jacob Thorne, the earl’s illegitimate half brother. The three of them owned Montague Club with Evan holding a lesser share. Thorne was also dressed in his evening finery, but his coat and waistcoat were made of velvet and were a deep blue in color as opposed to the traditional black and white of the aristocracy.
Despite the different hues of their skin—one was pale and the other golden brown—the two were obviously brothers to any onlooker who cared to make the connection. They were the same height with the same breadth to their shoulders. Though their features were slightly different, they were clearly defined by the sharp angles that had been distinct to the earls of Leigh for centuries. The same devil lurked in their smiles, though Leigh’s was more rapacious while Thorne’s carried a devil-may-care buoyancy.
Gesturing to the area marked off with ropes where they held their mock fights—and sometimes real fights if gambling was involved—Evan asked, “Are you offering to spar with me, Leigh?”
Leigh smiled, his limp more pronounced than usual as he came to a stop and leaned heavily on his silver-topped cane. “Not in your current mood. It may not appear this way at times, but I do value my life.”
“Thorne?”
Thorne shook his head and grinned as he made his way to the lounge area in the corner of the room. Pouring himself a finger of brandy, he said, “I have a later engagement that’s a damn sight more appealing than fighting with you tonight, Sterling.”
Evan’s own name. It was such a simple thing, but it reminded him that there were people in the world who did not view him by only his title. There had been a time when he had simply been Lord Evan Sterling. God, he missed that.
“Only one?” Evan adjusted the batting around his knuckles and flexed his fingers to test for comfort. Still too loose.
